Saoirse
The Next Morning
I wake up choking from the ghosts in my dreams.
I jerk upright, feeling the pressure around my neck release suddenly as consciousness chases away the demons inside my head.
My fingers graze over my neck, and I look around with well-rested eyes.
I’ve slept well. That’s… surprising.
I’ve never been a good or a deep sleeper. Too many things to be afraid of, I suppose. So the fact that I’ve managed it in a new, unfamiliar place is nothing short of astounding.
I get out of the bed and glance around the room. I’m alone, but it doesn’t feel eerie.
It feels cozy.
Sheltered.
Safe.
But there’s still part of me clenched tight. Part of me that doesn’t trust that any of this is real or that it would ever happen to someone as cursed as me. That part refuses to relax the final distance.
I glance out the window at the luxurious view of the gardens surrounding the lake. The skies are bluer than I’ve ever seen. But maybe that has more to do with perception than reality.
It’s not like I appreciated things like how blue the sky was before now. Before reconnecting with Cillian.
I drop my face into my open palms and sigh. He’s gotten into my head already.
Of course, it’s not as if he ever really left.
Wrenching myself away from this stupid merry-go-round of thoughts, I move for the door, determined to get out of this place before Cillian finds me.
I’m certain that seeing him will make leaving a hundred times harder.
Better to slip away without a goodbye.
But when I try the door, it refuses to open. The handle doesn’t even rattle. Doesn’t even budge.
It’s locked.
A wave of shock courses through me as I realize that I’m trapped in here. Quite literally.
And all the fear, all the uncertainty—it all immediately metamorphizes into fury.
How dare he lock me in here?
I rail at the door, pulling down hard on the knob to try and force it open. I don’t actually believe I’ll succeed, but it’s the only outlet for my frustration right now.
“No! No! No!” I hiss under my breath as angry tears prick at my eyes. I’m straining as hard as I can at the thick door and the unyielding handle. “I won’t let you—”
“Jesus Christ, Saoirse! Calm the fuck down.”
I freeze. “Cillian?” I whisper.
“I’ll also accept ‘my knight in shining armor,’” he replies, voice muffled through the door. “But ‘Cillian’ works, too.”
I hear the door click open to reveal Cillian standing there with puffy eyes. Behind him is a rather uncomfortable-looking chair with a low back rest, planted firmly in front of my door.